


Sweet As Honey

by Kaz_Langston



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Gentle Dom Eskel (The Witcher), Honey, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub Jaskier | Dandelion, Thin Veneer of Plot, Top Eskel (The Witcher), Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28512858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: Jaskier and Geralt have a chance encounter with Eskel one afternoon, and the witchers teach Jaskier a little about patience. Featuring honey, lingerie, and a very mouthy bard.Technically a sequel toAn old wolf learns a new trick (or three), where Geralt had been firmly corrected about his poor habits in bed, but can be read independently.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 216





	Sweet As Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [An old wolf learns a new trick (or three)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25610782) by [Kaz_Langston](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston). 



> The concept of fire lizards is partly inspired by the writings of Anne McCaffrey. I hope she wouldn’t have minded me borrowing them for the sfw section of this fic.
> 
> Lingerie very much inspired by [this gorgeous art](https://twitter.com/Lehanan_Aida/status/1341080415562547208) from Lehanan.

After being shown the error of his ways, Geralt had thoroughly turned over a new leaf. Yes, there were still the odd occasions when they simply threw themselves at a bed (or a wall, or a tree, or on one spectacularly memorable if ill-judged and prematurely terminated occasion, a throne) to fuck hard and fast, but for the most part Geralt was delighted to take his bard to pieces slowly and methodically.

Having left Eskel behind in Redania they hadn’t expected to see him again before the winter, but fate, as she often does, had a different idea.

*-*-*-*-*

It was a lazy, hazy late summer day, Geralt ambling along on Roach as Jaskier chattered animatedly, hardly pausing for breath. He didn't seem to need Geralt's participation, only occasionally looking up to check he still had the witcher's attention.

"And then, would you believe the nerve, the baron decided he was just going to take the painting and - do you hear that?"

"Hmm?" Of course he heard _it_ , he heard everything. What, exactly, was he supposed to pay attention to now?

"Buzzing, Geralt! Where there's buzzing there's bees, and-" With wild abandon, Jaskier plunged through a gap in the undergrowth, "-where there's bees there's _honey_!"

Rolling his eyes, Geralt tugged Roach to a halt, the mare’s ears pricking in interest. "When you get stung I'm not rubbing chamomile on any part of you," he called to Jaskier’s rapidly vanishing back.

Despite his words he slid from the saddle, feet thumping on the dusty ground, and scraped through the hedgerow, following the unsubtle sound of bees and bardic feet tromping through undergrowth.

Before he could get far, there was a high pitched shriek, not the inevitable yelp of a bee sting but rather something more like mortal peril, and he unsheathed his sword - steel - and took off at a run.

“Geralt - _Geralt_ !" Jaskier's voice pealed through the woods, high with fear. "There’s - oh, Melitele’s tits, Geralt there’s a baby dragon, its mother is probably right around the corner, I’m going to be toast! Barbequed - bard-bequed? It’s going to cook me, Geralt why aren’t you _doing anything-_?!”

Having burst through the trees with his sword held high, Geralt was, in fact, doing something, but rather than defending Jaskier against what was surely his imminent demise, he was doubled over laughing, leaning on his sword for support.

“Oh yes, very funny, you just stand there while I get eaten, don’t mind me!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt managed to wheeze out eventually, “Jaskier, it’s a fucking fire lizard.”

“You mean there isn’t some fifty foot mama dragon around the corner with bard on the menu?” The bard stared doubtfully at the little reptilian creature on his arm, sharp claws digging into the rich silk as he held it as far out from his body as he could manage, as though at any second it might lunge for his face with its viciously sharp - and tiny - teeth.

A strong witcher hand descended and grabbed the little red lizard by the scruff of its neck, the other unpeeling the claws one by one with careful dexterity, and Geralt held it up to eye level. He all but crooned to the little creature as its tail whipped up and around his wrist. “You’re no danger, are you?”

He settled it on his own arm, the claws digging into thick leather as it chirruped happily back at him. "This is as big as they get."

Jaskier brushed irritably at the marks left on his sleeve as he examined the tree for a climbing route, testing his weight on a low branch. “This is my second best doublet, you know, Cintran silk.”

Geralt was too preoccupied with scratching the little creature’s chin, where it was twisting around to give him better access and half showing its belly, to pay any attention.

Jaskier scowled down from the tree, arm wrapped around a thick branch. “If I’d known all I needed to do to get you to like me was roll on my back-”

Geralt didn’t look away from the lizard as he raised an eyebrow.

“Do fuck off,” Jaskier told him cordially.

The fire lizard burped, a sulfurous thing that carried a whiff of burnt sugar, and Geralt mentally called the bard's next complaint.

"Oh, someone's had all the honey, and the comb too," came the disappointed commentary from the tree, and there was a scrape-thud as Jaskier slid half way down, dropping the last few feet.

Surreptitiously, Geralt swiped a finger over the creature's head where a telltale glisten of honey still lingered, hesitated for a moment as he considered licking it off himself, and then held it out to the lizard.

"I'll buy you some in the next town," he promised absently, as the lizard licked his finger clean with a thin tongue, multifaceted eyes whirling.

When Geralt glanced up, Jaskier was looking at him with a peculiarly soft expression. “What?”

“An hour ago you fought a noonwraith with magic and silver, a figure from any heroic ballad, and now you’re looking at that little creature like you want to take it back to Kaer Morhen and teach it to fetch sticks.”

The tips of Geralt’s ears went pink.

“They’re interesting,” he grumped out, giving it a last little scratch. “Not many left. More than dragons, but rare enough.”

It lifted from his arm without complaint, and he deposited it carefully on a branch before shooing Jaskier back to the road.

*-*-*-*-*

On the approach to the town, Geralt’s head lifted, his nostrils flaring, and his eyes narrowed.

Up ahead was a familiar horse and beside it a familiar broad frame in red leather, twin swords marking him a witcher even if his size hadn’t given him away.

Jaskier shouldered Geralt out of the way, trotting down the road with a shout. “Eskel!”

The dark haired witcher turned, stern face breaking into a smile, and Jaskier threw himself into Eskel’s arms. Broad hands scooped under his arse, lifting him off the ground as he yelped and clung tightly.

“Hello, little bard,” Eskel said affectionately, kissing Jaskier’s cheek far more chastely than his grip might suggest. “Geralt,” he nodded, still holding Jaskier off the ground, as the witcher arrived more sedately in Jaskier’s wake. “Have you been treating him well, brother?” Eyebrows wriggled suggestively.

Geralt snarled, and punched him in the arm, but it was friendly, in that it only would have made a normal man stumble, rather than fall. Eskel didn’t flinch.

He did, however, put Jaskier down, patting the bard’s ruffled jacket until it lay straight beneath the strap of the lute.

“He certainly looks well enough,” Eskel said dryly, eyeing up the tell-tale bruises marring the bard’s neck, and Jaskier’s cheeks flushed.

“I - you - have created a monster,” he announced dramatically, then grinned. “I could compose ballads, nay, full song cycles about some of the things we get up to-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled, and Eskel fancied that the tips of his ears were a little red.

Deciding not to push his luck the bard moved on. “We’ve a room up at the Hare and Hounds, Geralt’s just been and heroically dispatched the noonwraiths so we’re even in a half decent room.”

“Oh. Guess there’s no point me heading out there then.”

“You can watch me perform instead,” Jaskier said presumptuously, and though Geralt rolled his eyes Eskel looked delighted to have been extended an invitation.

“You’ll never hear the end of it, if you encourage him,” Geralt grumbled.

Jaskier sniffed. “Eskel is a man of culture, aren’t you my darling? He appreciates my singing.” He batted his eyelids at Eskel, who looked a little wary but obligingly nodded.

Geralt wasn’t finished. “Oh is that the caterwauling you were doing yesterday? You should have said something, I’d have applauded.”

With a slightly-too-vicious kick to the shin Jaskier turned his back, arms folded and nose turned up. “I’m going to travel with Eskel from now on. Or maybe renounce all witchers, you’re all terrible. Don’t think I don’t remember your little _contretemps_ last time.”

Geralt snorted, hauled him close with an arm around his shoulders, and pressed a kiss to his cheek with only the slightest hesitation.

“No, go away, I’m sulking,” Jasker said, as he grabbed Geralt’s arse.

“Gods, are the two of you always like this now?” Eskel shook his head in disgust. “It seems I’ve created _two_ monsters.”

It wasn’t far to the inn, Jaskier squeezed in between the two of them, but given the narrow road, the horses and the sheer bulk of the witchers, he found himself a little crowded. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but after a judgemental look from Eskel and then Geralt not two minutes later, he tried to think thoughts that didn’t involve him being the bard-shaped cheese in a witcher sandwich.

Thing is. Once he'd thought of a thing like that - Eskel’s cock in his mouth and Geralt’s in his arse, or Eskel’s cock in his arse and his cock in Geralt’s arse, or just the less choreographically challenging option of sucking one and jerking off the other - it was very, very hard to stop thinking about it. Especially since he didn’t really _want_ to stop thinking about it.

Eventually Geralt pulled Roach to a halt, face some complicated mixture of amused and exasperated. “Jaskier.”

“Yes?” He tried for normal and unaroused, but suspected he hadn’t been even a little successful.

“Walk in front.”

That didn’t help at all, but with the breeze at their backs he was at least downwind from sensitive witcher noses, and they couldn’t see his cock prodding at his breeches.

They made it to the tavern in time for dinner, settling at a corner table, the witchers with their backs to the wall depriving Jaskier of his chance to people watch, though he was content enough with the view.

“So, how’s the witchering business keeping you?” Jaskier asked, settling in for a good gossip as they waited for food.

Eskel merely shrugged. “Nothing big. Couple of kikimores last week, only soldiers. Rumour of a basilisk a few days east, which might be interesting. You?”

"Jaskier neatly got eaten by a dragon today," Geralt informed him solemnly.

Across the table, Jaskier groaned and buried his face in his hands. "I hate you," he muttered, voice muffled.

"Are you alright?" Eskel asked, scarred face creasing in worry, "I haven't heard anything about a dragon-"

Jaskier raised his head long enough to snap, "It was a fucking fire lizard," before shooting a filthy look at Geralt, who failed to contain his rumbling laughter, and hiding his face again. “I’d never heard of the damn things and _someone_ didn’t bother telling me until my legs were weak with terror.”

Dinner arrived at just the right point to cut off further mockery, and they dove into it with relish, and then Jaskier was up for his performance. He left with some reluctance, keen to pry stories out of Eskel while he had the chance and perhaps get in a hint of flirting, but a job was a job after all and he had a crowd to entertain.

In the corner Geralt did his best impression of Geralt-of-ten-years-ago, all hooded cloak and brooding and a jawline sharp enough to draw blood. Beside him Eskel was little better, sat deliberately away from the light so his scarred face was cast into shadow.

They at least seemed more than willing to talk to each other, though Jaskier wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than brooding silence.

And of course when they were talking they weren’t _listening to him_ , and that wouldn’t do, would it?

The room was warm enough; he undid his doublet - poor scratched thing that it was - between songs, fingers nimble on the fastenings, letting his particularly lovely chemise show.

Eskel raised an eyebrow and leant over to say something to Geralt, who shook his head and took another sip of ale, but his eyes were appropriately tracking Jaskier’s movements.

He tried not to look too triumphant.

Three songs later, after a rousing jig that had half the room stomping along, the doublet came off completely. Obviously he couldn’t just abandon such a nice garment on the floor, better to give it to two witchers to look after.

Breathless, he made his way over, draping it across Geralt’s lap. “Do be a darling and keep this safe?”

“I’m not your guard dog,” Geralt grumped back, folding the doublet neatly and placing it beside his swords.

The next song was a little more challenging, one of the compositions he was lining up for the late summer’s bardic competitions, so he had to concentrate on the chord progressions rather than attempting to eye-fuck Geralt into the wall. Much to his disdain, when he looked up the witchers were deep in conversation, heads bent as they talked through something that looked to be _very_ important, given the way they were ignoring him.

He spent the rest of the night prancing about, pointedly _not_ looking at his witchers, the uncultured brutes.

By the time he collapsed beside them, breathless and sweaty, it was nearing midnight. Geralt pushed a half finished tankard of ale in his direction, raising an eyebrow as he gulped it down. “Have fun?”

“Yes, thank you, even if my audience wasn’t the most attentive.”

“We listened,” Eskel said mildly. “We just had important things to discuss.”

“Alright, yes, important witchery things, I get it. I am but a humble bard, after all.” He turned away, waving the near-empty tankard at the barmaid before draining the last of it.

Geralt caught his attention with a hand on his leg. “We have a proposition.”

“Oh ho, that sounds intriguing, go on.” Jaskier rested his chin on his hands, batting long eyelashes at his witcher.

“Tomorrow evening. After we’ve bathed.”

“But - you’re not going to tell me?” He looked outraged, expressive face caught up on itself as he scowled, then tried puppy eyes, then some ineffective combination of the two.

“Tomorrow, bard,” Geralt rumbled. “I’m sure even you can have that little patience.”

“I most certainly can _not_!”

The dark haired witcher slid closer, reaching out until he could curl a large hand around Jaskier’s jaw to pull him forward, just a little, so they met across Geralt’s chest, Jaskier wide eyed and pink cheeked. Bard suitably stilled, Eskel murmured, “Be patient, little bard, be _very_ good, and perhaps you’ll get a reward.”

Jaskier swallowed, and gave a little jerky nod into the pressure of Eskel’s palm. “Okay. Right, yes. Patience, I can do that.”

*-*-*-*-*

“Geralt. Geralt, I know you have a tendency towards reticence but really, this is becoming ridiculous.” Cycling between frustration, pleading and coercion with promises of silence that were promptly broken each time, Jaskier wasn’t dealing well with _patience_. “I’ll tell you later” hadn’t gone down well.

After seeing the alderman to claim his fee, a morning at the market - half alone, then the latter half accompanied by Jaskier - had turned into lunch at the inn had turned into Geralt savouring an ale in the face of Jaskier’s frustration.

Wandering hands and occasional filthy kisses had left the bard squirming with a steady, musky arousal, which Geralt kept just stoked enough to make it awkward for him to stand, but which certainly hadn’t helped Jaskier’s increasingly shredded patience.

Fortunately for his blood pressure, the innkeep was responsive with the ale and, he hoped, with other requests. He leaned back and caught the man’s eye.

“Bath, please.” If the inkeep heard the strain in his voice, he wisely didn’t comment.

“Ah, so we’re finally getting to the bath! Perhaps I’ll find out this big mystery before I shuffle off this mortal coil, though I have my doubts. I truly will be going with Eskel, first thing tomorrow, see if I don’t.”

Geralt kept his eyes fixed on the ale, and the next one, as Jaskier grumped and strummed his lute discordantly. So hard was he concentrating, he almost missed Eskel’s return; Jaskier, preoccupied with complaints to an unreceptive audience, didn’t notice him at all, though how he could miss six foot plus of witcher, twin swords and armour and all, Geralt had no idea. Self preservation of a well-fed mosquito.

The heavy hand on his shoulder made Jaskier nearly leap out of his chair, hands flying up defensively for all the good it would do him, but he dropped them when his wide eyes took in Eskel.

“Scare a man to death, why don’t you! Where’ve you been all morning, I’ve been stuck with tall pale and grumpy here, and he’s not said a thing about this proposition of yours! And he’s driving me half mad with his bastard witcher hands.”

“He doesn’t know the meaning of the word patient,” Geralt growled at Eskel, who only laughed at his brother’s predicament.

“Thought you were an educated man,” the witcher drawled, leaning casually on the back of Jaskier’s chair.

Mouth open in exaggerated incredulity, Jaskier half-stood for a verbal assault on the two of them, some insult wrapped up in pretty words to disguise it until it was lodged under the skin, but with hardly any movement Eskel’s _lean_ was suddenly more of a _loom_ , his eyes fixed on Jaskier’s. “Sit _down_ , bard.”

Eyes wide and mouth snapped shut, Jaskier eased himself back onto the chair, awkwardly twisted to see Eskel where he stood behind him.

Charitably, Eskel shifted forward, until they were almost nose to nose and Jaskier could feel the heat of him at the back of his neck.

“Geralt made me a suggestion,” Eskel’s voice slid down Jaskier’s spine, sharp and silky and hot like a mouthful of good whiskey. Across the table, Geralt’s lip eased upwards to bare his teeth in a sharp-edged smile. “He suggested that you, impudent little thing that you are, had fancied yourself able to handle two witchers. And that there had been some mention of a... comparison.”

Bright blue eyes flicked across the table to where Geralt sat in silence, and the white-haired witcher bowed his head in a nod.

“Seriously?”

“Mm.”

“ _Gods_ , yes.”

“But of course,” Eskel said mournfully, “We had said after the bath, hadn’t we? And I believe we said this evening, and it’s barely three.”

“Well,” Jaskier floundered briefly, “There’s always during the bath,” he said with a hopeful smile.

The innkeep coughed politely, which made Jaskier jump again though neither of the witchers so much as blinked, and addressed Geralt. “Bath in your room when you’re ready, witcher.”

Geralt stood, and after a moment Eskel reluctantly straightened to give Jaskier a little breathing space.

“The bath is for you. As long as you’re _quiet_.” Heading for the stairs, Geralt didn’t look like he expected that to be possible, and indeed Jaskier being quiet hadn’t exactly featured heavily in their history of shared baths.

“Of course, my dear witcher,” Jaskier said, getting to his feet. “I will be the quietest, most respectful person you’ve ever had the pleasure to bathe with.” He offered a winning smile.

“I hope so,” Eskel said, low and quiet enough that only Jaskier and Geralt could hear. “But we can always gag you.”

Jaskier missed his next step and Eskel laughed, catching him under the arms and steadying him with casual strength. “Easy there.”

From half way up the stairs Geralt paused and gave Jaskier a quick look over. “Don’t break him before we can have our fun,” he cautioned Eskel.

“I won’t break him at all, unless he wants breaking,” Eskel grinned up at him, and nudged Jaskier forward.

*-*-*-*-*

The bath was barely lukewarm, a relief in the oppressive summer heat, and Jaskier wasted no time in stripping off to his smallclothes before pausing, thumbs in his waistband, at the sight of the two witchers watching him, arms folded, with no sign of undressing.

“What?” he asked.

“Thinking,” Geralt said.

“Deciding,” Eskel said.

“Oh.” Jaskier swallowed. “Deciding what?”

“Which way we’ll have you first.”

Some thin whine leapt from his throat, and wolfish grins glimmered at him from across the room.

“In you get,” Geralt said, tone affable enough.

Stumbling a little, Jaskier dropped trou and climbed into the bath. Though it took him a little time to settle, the witchers were still where they had been, yellow eyes sharp in the afternoon light as their heavy frames crowded the room.

Eskel was the first to move, bare feet silent on the wooden floors. Jaskier could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as the huge witcher slunk around behind him, but with Geralt looking down at him implacably from the other side of the bathtub, it was impossible to see both of them at once, even when he spread his arms out across the rim of the bath and leant back in a terrible approximation of relaxation.

Eskel’s hand on his shoulder made him jump.

“You look nervous, little bard.”

Jaskier tried not to squirm, fixing his gaze on Geralt instead of trying to twist awkwardly to see Eskel, but there was a curl of amusement on the white-haired witcher’s face. He felt Eskel’s hair brush his jaw, and the tip of the oft-broken nose nudged against his neck.

“Mm, you _smell_ nervous, too.”

Sharp teeth pressed into delicate flesh, and he couldn’t hold back his quick intake of breath at the delicious shock.

Eskel withdrew with a low, husky laugh that sent tingles down his spine, trailing a hand down his outstretched arm.

Distracted by Eskel’s fingers - surely such a small touch shouldn’t feel like lightning under his skin? - he didn’t notice Geralt move, didn’t notice until Geralt had settled at his other side, wrapping an implacable hand around his wrist.

Beneath the water, his prick was taking a more than passing interest in proceedings, and he would be tempted to take himself in hand except that, when he tried, he found first one arm and then the other pressed into stillness by calloused witcher hands.

Jaskier cleared his throat, but neither of them moved. “Well. Do you plan to simply trap me here until the sun goes down and I succumb to starvation, or did you have something in mind?”

“Told you he wouldn’t be quiet,” Geralt growled, and Jaskier shot him a grin.

“I do struggle so, Geralt.”

Eskel’s free hand, the one not pinning Jaskier’s wrist like the tightest of ropes, slipped over his shoulder and traced the line of his neck, before settling at the bow of his lips.

He opened obediently beneath the unsubtle pressure and sucked at Eskel’s broad finger, tasting salt and clean skin. The witcher’s eyes, already dark and hungry, dilated at his touch.

Behind him Geralt’s hand, familiar in its strength, buried itself in his hair. Huge and gentle, it rested there until Jaskier’s attention had narrowed down to just the taste of Eskel’s skin, when it twisted into an implacable fist, wrapped around enough of his hair to send a bolt of lightning down his spine. Jaskier couldn’t help but voice his pleasure at the sting of it, mouth falling slack.

The rough bristle of Geralt’s stubble scraped against his jaw as the witcher tilted his head back to growl in his ear. “You’re being quiet now.”

Ah, the vagarity of witchers - sometimes quiet meant _don’t talk, don’t hum, and definitely don’t strum that bloody lute_ , and sometimes quiet meant no talking, but as much pretty moaning as Geralt could draw from him. Although admittedly most definitions did cover not playing the lute.

Jaskier sucked again at Eskel’s finger, at the mercy of Geralt’s grip, unable to lean forward when the dark haired witcher stood and pulled away, instead just making a wordless noise of complaint. Both witchers laughed, and Jaskier squirmed as he felt, as much as heard, Geralt’s low amusement.

Untangling his fingers from Jaskier’s hair, Geralt snaked his hand below the water, and Jaskier held his breath, knees spreading wide in anticipation.

“Geralt,” Eskel warned. Geralt’s gaze flicked up to him, and after a moment of tense silence his hand lifted from the water despite Jaskier’s protests.

It wasn’t like Geralt to be quite so obliging, nor had Eskel been quite so imposing last time they’d laid together, but perhaps there had been some agreement made during the witchers’ long discussions last night. Certainly this wasn’t something they’d done before, at least not together, not given how surprised Eskel had been to hear about Geralt’s shortcomings.

A press of lips smothered Jaskier’s protests and he immediately deepened it into something much filthier, his eager tongue seeking Geralt’s mouth, twisting awkwardly in the bath to curl a damp arm around Geralt’s shoulders.

“Geralt,” Eskel called again, low and demanding, and despite a defiant curl to his lip Geralt obediently pulled away from his bard, picking up soap and a washcloth to leave it on the side of the tub.

Blinking at the cloth Jaskier tried desperately to reorient himself, suddenly untethered. Things had been going so well, and now he had to stop?

“Wash, Jaskier,” Eskel told him gently. “Without jerking off, please. We’ll be back in... fifteen minutes? Twenty.”

“You’re going?” His voice cracked embarrassingly.

“We’re leaving you a gift,” Geralt told him.

He perked up at the sound of a gift, and Eskel snorted. “You are as transparent as crystal.”

Still, a small parcel hit the bed, a neatly wrapped thing in paper and string, and he went to rise from the bath, but firm gazes had him sinking back down guiltily.

“Look at it after you’ve washed. Don’t go getting grubby hands all over it.”

“It’s already had grubby witcher hands all over it,” Jaskier grumbled, but obediently picked up the soap.

He waited until they’d gone, the door clunking shut, before leaping from the bath and grabbing for the parcel. He’d barely taken hold of the string when Geralt’s voice came from behind the closed door. “I will tan your arse with my bare hand, bard, Melitele help me.”

The package went back on the bed, stained with damp fingerprints, and Jaskier scurried back to the bath, fighting back laughter.

Even two fingers in his arse wasn’t quite enough to distract him for long, and when he deemed himself squeaky clean and open enough - Geralt’s newfound delight in stretching him for what felt like hours meant he hardly had to concern himself with that - it was the work of a moment to dry and finally settle down, naked, on the bed.

The paper and string unravelled in his hands, spilling the contents across his lap, and his breath caught.

Blue silk and lace, little scraps of fabric meant to cover everything and nothing.

It took a little time for him to dress himself, and his cheeks pinked when he realised there was no crotch to the lingerie, the only real cover the delicate embellishments at chest and hip. He dithered between lounging on the bed, naked but for the undergarment, or standing proud in the middle of the room, but last minute doubts had him diving for his pack.

When the witchers returned, damp around the edges from an apparent quick wash of their own, the lingerie was covered up with his clothes, though he’d chosen a temptingly thin silk chemise that caught on the pretty lace, and his breeches were unlaced.

Sharp witcher eyes spotted the discarded packaging, and the bottle of oil unsubtly placed on the bedside table.

Drawing on years of performing, Jaskier managed to keep from squirming, chin up and defiant, though he couldn’t stop his fingers from fidgeting. The instant the door closed, Eskel’s hand was on the collar of his chemise, pulling it aside to reveal the top of the harness where it wound across his chest.

“Satisfied?” He couldn’t help the challenge in his tone.

There was silence for a long moment, and then Eskel half turned to Geralt, eyebrow raised.

“Very,” Geralt growled.

The shirt came off over his head easily in Eskel’s massive hands. The harness, its delicate lace incongruous against the hair on his chest, was perfectly fitted, and twin gazes tracked it down to where it disappeared into his breeches.

Jaskier cocked a hip and grinned. “Don’t you want to see the rest?”

Eskel followed one of the straps with a careful finger, following it from the jut of his collarbone around to the ridge of his shoulderblade, and Jaskier shivered a little at his touch.

“Put on a show, then, little bard.”

Easy strides had the witchers lounging on the wide bed, a willing audience.

Bare feet on the wooden floors, the heat of the late summer day bringing sweat to his skin, he swayed to some rhythm in his own head, trailing his hands below the waistband of his breeches, cupping his cock where it throbbed, at least half hard, between his legs.

From below his lashes, he could see the witchers’ intent gazes, saw Geralt glance at Eskel and curl his own hands into fists to keep from reaching for - himself? Jaskier? He didn’t know.

Eventually the breeches had to go, slipped down slowly, revealing more of the blue silk, revealing the darkly furred trail, revealing his drooling, hardened cock.

He stood there, naked but for the thin strips of blue, breathing a little hard with his arousal, resisting the urge to cover himself.

Geralt stood, the tent in his leather trousers all too obvious, easy strides bringing him to Jaskier’s side, hands at hip and jaw to bring him close and kiss him, deep and filthy.

“Show me,” Eskel growled, voice wrecked and low. Geralt bit at Jaskier’s lip, nudging him back towards the bath tub, turning his back to the bed.

Scarred hands guided his own long fingers to wrap around the wood, and Geralt’s hand on his spine dipped him lower, and lower still, until his back was arched prettily, a long stretch that displayed his arse and his swollen, bobbing cock to Eskel.

He could feel himself blushing as he stood there, arse in the air, and would have straightened had Geralt’s hand not rested, implacable, on the curve of his hip.

“I’d forgotten how pretty your arse is,” Eskel said conversationally.

That didn’t help Jaskier’s blushes at all - he’d certainly heard far filthier things, but not often said in a witcher’s low tone.

“Geralt,” came the next command.

He watched leather-clad legs go to the bed and back, and Geralt bent down to place a familiar vial at the base of the bath tub, looking up through a veil of hair to catch Jaskier’s eye.

“Alright?” he said quietly, and Jaskier grinned at him, exhilaration in his blood.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Geralt straightened, and two broad hands slid down Jaskier’s sides, gentle over the delicate silk, finding their homes on his arse cheeks, lifting and _oh gods_ spreading him wide, showing off _everything_ to Eskel.

He could feel his face heating further under the scrutiny, and if he dropped his head enough he could just see Eskel, framed between his spread legs. The witcher grinned at him, wide and toothy.

One of Geralt’s hands moved from the meat of his arse, tugged gently at the straps framing his taint to send a thrill through him, and then settled right at his entrance, two fingers rubbing gently, nudging at the taut muscle.

“You stretched before,” Geralt said idly.

“Yes,” Jaskier rasped. He pushed back, trying to take Geralt inside, but the witcher rode with it before letting go to reach for the oil.

Two fingers returned, cool and slick, smearing down his crease as Geralt kept his arse spread wide.

From the bed Eskel must be able to see everything, every inch of Geralt’s fingers easing in, every flex of Jaskier’s thighs, every twitch of his prick, and Jaskier couldn’t help how his cock twitched at the thought.

Two fingers spread inside him, became three with little trouble, Geralt stretching him with the care that had become so familiar, twisting and flexing and filling him until his legs trembled.

Unnoticed, Eskel rose from the bed to add his hands to Jaskier’s quivering back, stretching the span of his waist, though Jaskier was no small man himself.

“You’re being remarkably well behaved,” the witcher informed him. “I think, perhaps, you can have your second gift. If you’d like.”

Jaskier’s head snapped up at that, despite the awkward angle. “Another gift?”

“Stay there,” Geralt told him absently, hand heavy, and Jaskier obediently bowed his back a little further.

“It’s just a - little thing.” The amusement in Eskel’s tone was a little worrying, and Jaskier swallowed.

There was another rustle of paper and wet slurp of oil, and Geralt’s fingers paused as Eskel held something for inspection beneath Jaskier’s flexing arms.

A carved wooden plug, at its widest point almost as thick as a witcher’s cock, dripping with oil.

“Oh, fuck, yes!”

“I do worry a little,” Eskel said mournfully. “I wonder if it might not fit.”

His free hand slid from Jaskier’s back down to his arse, where three of Geralt’s fingers lingered, nudging a fingertip alongside.

Jaskier couldn’t help but tilt his hips back towards that delicious pressure. “I assure you, I’m - more than capable.”

The fingertip slipped inside and Jaskier keened at the new stretch, Eskel’s finger crushingly tight against Geralt’s.

He could hear heavy breaths, a counterpoint to his own.

“Sure you’re not biting off more you can chew?”

He wasn’t sure whose finger moved, but one of them scraped over his prostate slow enough to make him groan, his own hands clutching at the bathtub so tightly there would surely be marks left in the wood.

“Fuck - no, yes, please -”

Fingers withdrew, replaced by the swell of the toy, and with surprisingly little resistance it slid home, his entrance fluttering around it as it narrowed, burying the length of it deep inside.

The hand still on his back - he’d lost track now, whose it was - lifted, his witchers each taking a pace backwards.

He stood there, arse high and clenching, back long and stretched out, silk framing his arse and shoulders and sweeping elegantly round to his hips, and luxuriated in the covetous gazes.

A wet sound caught his attention, and he twisted to see Eskel leisurely fisting his own prick, breeches pushed just low enough for him to grasp himself.

“You look - so fucking pretty, bard. Jaskier. _Fuck_.”

The witcher’s face, which had been so carefully composed throughout, was relaxed and lustful, biting at his lip as his eyes drifted closed for a long, indulgent moment.

Geralt looked no less hungry, though his cock was still in his trousers, obscenely hard against the leather.

“One more gift, Jaskier.”

The words wouldn’t come, caught in his throat at the sight of Eskel’s fat cock sliding through his fist, but his expression must have shown his approval.

Geralt guided him upright and then to the bed, rubbing at shoulders that had been stretched out for long minutes. The plug made it awkward to sit; instead he had Jaskier lie on his back, which dug the toy in at a delicious new angle.

As soon as Jaskier’s arms felt his own again he reached a hand out to Eskel, beckoning him closer until he could curl it around a huge thigh and pull him nearer still, near enough for Jaskier to twist up and lick the precome from the tip of his prick as Eskel cursed.

Watching closely, Geralt wrapped his own hand around Jaskier’s cock, stroking him from root to tip firmly, and the bard’s hips jerked, his mouth falling open.

Bucking into Geralt’s fist, rocking back into the pressure of the thick toy, sucking Eskel’s cock into his mouth, Jaskier lost himself for a little while, mind empty of anything but hazy pleasure.

Eventually wide hands curled around his jaw and soothed him to stillness, Geralt’s hand slowing, and Jaskier slumped back, breathing hard.

“Alright there?” Eskel asked with a grin, pulling his breeches back up.

“Yeah,” He panted, and then, mischievously, “You said something about another gift?”

“We’re spoiling you,” Geralt grumbled, reaching beneath the bed, presenting a pot of golden liquid.

“Honey!”

“You missed out yesterday, so...”

The little fire lizard, and the empty beehive. It felt a long time ago, before they’d so fortuitously met Eskel.

How much Geralt could surprise him, sometimes, his gruff and grumpy witcher.

He swallowed hard, suddenly a little overcome. Geralt’s face went a little panicked, but Jaskier flapped a hand at him, blinking away tears. “I love it.”

Eskel, quiet and patient, took the jar from Geralt’s hand, unsealing it. “It might be your gift, but we were hoping that we might have the first taste?”

At Jaskier’s confused expression, he ran a finger through the honey, lifting it to drip, sweet and golden, across Jaskier’s chest.

“Oh,” Jaskier managed, eyes going wide, and then Eskel bent forward to lick a broad stripe across one nipple, lapping away the honey and taking the chance to suck at Jaskier’s skin in the process. Taking Jaskier’s other nipple in sticky fingers, Geralt bit at it gently and soothed it with hungry kisses, leaving his chest hair in tangled whorls and eddies.

Always sensitive, his nipples hardened under their attentions, the blush that had never quite left his cheeks spreading down to meet the witcher’s mouths as he panted beneath their attentions, their hands squeezing and tugging, knowing how sensitive he was and delighting in his hungry sounds.

Next was his cock, hard and angry red, jerking when Geralt let fat drops of honey fall from his fingers onto the head before diving in to lick it with awful, gentle care.

“You missed a spot,” Eskel pointed out helpfully, adding his own tongue to Jaskier’s cock, slurping messily at the shaft.

Fingers trembling, Jaskier reached out to rest one hand on Eskel’s dark head, twining the other through Geralt’s hair. Words of praise became nonsensical cries as sharp-toothed mouths and clever tongues bit and licked and sucked at his length, the witchers gazing up at him with dilated golden eyes before grinning at what they saw there and redoubling their efforts.

Once Jaskier was a gasping, writhing mess they pulled away. In the delicate harness, stained with honey and saliva and precome, he looked nothing less than debauched, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Scooping up some of the remaining honey in two thick fingers, Geralt held it to Jaskier’s bite-swollen lips, watching with hooded eyes as the bard sucked it from his fingers, licking between them and sucking at them until every sticky drop was gone. It was as sweet as he had hoped; paired with the familiar taste of Geralt’s skin it was perfect, and he sighed happily as he sank back into the pillow.

“Roll over,” Eskel said, and Jaskier shot him a look of disbelief.

“You’re not doing that on my back as well, I’ll _die_.”

Never let it be said that Jaskier understates things.

“I think the agreement was a comparison,” Eskel grinned. “If you want to suck our cocks, then...”

Jaskier scrambled onto all fours with alacrity, setting back on his heels at the edge of the bed as the witchers stripped off leather breeches, smallclothes and medallions, standing naked and proud in front of their disheveled bard.

“Oh, _fuck_.”

The witchers were of a height, those scant centimeters that Geralt so often used to scowl down at him evident in Eskel as well. Despite Geralt’s bulk Eskel was even more broad, his chest a vast thing shaded with more dark hair than Geralt, though not quite as much as Jaskier’s own, he was quietly pleased to note. There was little enough he could compare to a witcher physically, he’d take any wins he could get.

Scars varied, of course; claw marks across Geralt’s breast were absent on Eskel, while the remnants of a bite curled around half of Eskel’s waist; more claw marks were prominent on Eskel’s huge thigh, which had to be near as wide around as Jaskier’s own waist. The wound Renfri had left deep in Geralt’s thigh had faded to almost nothing visible; time had been far less kind to Eskel’s own heartfelt punishment, though the warmth in his eyes when he looked down at Jaskier blunted much of the impact of the twisted scar.

Between their legs, both witchers wielded true weapons, their pricks thick and long and swollen red, bobbing with each breath, precome pearling on each of them. When Jaskier licked his lips they jerked in tandem, and he resisted the almost visceral urge to reach for his notebook and quill to start writing down thoughts on witchers and their - swords, and the responsiveness thereof.

As Eskel had once told him, Geralt’s was perhaps very slightly thicker but both were perfect, beautifully in proportion to their massive bodies, and Jaskier’s mouth watered at the sight. It was too tempting - he reached out a hand to Eskel, the other balancing on Geralt’s thigh as he leant forward to mouth at his length.

Above him, Geralt hissed something between clenched teeth, but distracted by the salt and heat of him Jaskier ignored it, licking and sucking enthusiastically as his free hand jerked Eskel.

They moved closer, hip to hip and entirely unselfconscious as Jaskier went from one to the other, never leaving a witcher untouched for more than a moment; hands stroked through his hair, and thumbed at his lips where they stretched wide.

With more experience of Geralt’s length it was his that Jaskier first took deep, resting the weight of him on the back of his tongue, then with a practiced movement swallowing him into his throat, letting it fill him and press him open. When his throat spasmed his whole body clenched, reminding him of the toy that still sat buried in him, and he pulled off Geralt’s cock moaning, distracted by grinding against the mattress to drive the plug deeper.

Eskel pulled him up into a kiss, and then nudged his cock between spit-wet lips. Jaskier swallowed him eagerly until his nose pressed up against dark curls, tongue and throat working.

Broad fingers caught at his jaw, then slid down his neck to delicately embrace his throat; Jaskier looked up to find Eskel’s gaze fixed on him, awestruck, before the witcher bucked his hips a little, his own mouth gone slack.

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt, I can feel - fuck, I can feel my cock in his _throat_.” Jaskier would have laughed at the look in Eskel’s eyes, had he not been distracted trying not to gag, his eyes watering, and it was with great disappointment that he had to pull away to gasp for breath.

“Again,” he rasped, when the witchers looked at him in some combination of arousal and concern. “Again, c’mon.”

Geralt again, blood-hot and soaked in spit and precome, the witchers each resting a hand on his throat as Geralt rocked shallowly. Jaskier blinked away tears, both hands clenched around Geralt’s arse to keep him close, swallowing convulsively around his thickness.

This time when he pulled away gasping, tears spilling down his cheeks, Eskel called a halt, setting a hand firmly on Jaskier’s heaving chest to still him. “Enough, bard. If you can’t sing tomorrow, we’ll all be the worse for it.”

Geralt was certainly not thinking at full capacity, as he let that slide by without comment. Instead, he sat beside Jaskier and hauled him bodily - but with apparently minimal effort - onto his lap, Jaskier’s legs spread wide around broad thighs.

His voice, when it came in Jaskier’s ear, was a low, ruined thing. “Can I fuck you?”

Jaskier nodded frantically, and Geralt eased one hand under a lithely muscled thigh to open him up, the other catching at Jaskier’s grasping hands to stop him from playing with his prick. A small cruelty from his witcher, and one Jaskier would remember next time he had him spread out across the bed with ropes around his wrists.

Oil in hand and scarred face eager, Eskel knelt before them, though it certainly didn’t feel like supplication, more a compression of explosive power. “The sight you make, Jaskier...” He shook his head, and reached between the bard’s legs to catch at the toy where it sat snugly against him, the other hand upending the oil on Geralt’s cock.

He didn’t pull the toy out all at once, instead teasing him with it, fucking in and out remorselessly as Jaskier sobbed, and only when he snarled a frustrated, empty threat did he pull it out all the way.

Balanced between Geralt’s hands and chest Jaskier flinched at the loss, but then there was a fresh pressure at his entrance and with infinite patience Geralt was lowering him down, spearing him open.

Under Eskel’s heated gaze Jaskier threw his head back, all the better for Geralt to bite at his neck, leaving marks on top of those that already lingered there as he panted, open-mouthed.

Finally allowed his hands back to balance on his witcher, Jaskier tried with trembling muscles to lift himself up, growling in frustration when he couldn’t manage more than an inch.

“Geralt.”

Jaskier felt the witcher’s attention snap to Eskel, who still crouched before them with his eyes alight, and they waited, poised.

“Help your poor bard, will you?”

With a growl the hand under his thigh shifted for a better grip, the other taking a firm grip under his arse, and the same strength that slayed griffins and kikimores lifted him up until the tip of Geralt’s thick cock dragged at his twitching rim. It was a long, torturous second before Geralt let him go, hips snapping up, and Jaskier howled wordlessly, eyes rolling in his head.

Again and again Jaskier was lifted, until he was sobbing helplessly with each movement, head hanging limp, his cock achingly hard and slapping against his stomach with every thrust.

As Geralt’s hips began to stutter Eskel held up a hand, and the next time Jaskier settled on Geralt’s thighs the witcher let him rest, grinding his hips in little circles to go even deeper as Jaskier hauled in huge breaths, letting his head loll back against Geralt’s shoulder.

“Alright?” Geralt murmured, wrapping an arm around Jaskier’s chest to hold him close. The loss of his near-orgasm didn’t seem to bother him much, too concerned with pressing kisses into the bard’s neck.

Voice cracking, Jaskier choked out a yes. Taking pity on him Eskel stood to fetch water, and Jaskier downed it eagerly, spilling drops down his honey and oil stained chest, darkening the pretty blue silk in the few places sweat hadn’t yet reached.

“I really,” he managed afterwards, “Really, _really_ need to come. Please.”

“But-”

“If you say a single fucking thing about taking your time, Geralt, I swear I will replace you with that toy and you’ll sleep alone for a month.”

With a snort of laughter Geralt bit at his shoulder, then kissed the wounded skin. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Jaskier snarled weakly at him, much to both witchers’ amusement, before going limp again. “I have so many regrets,” he said faintly.

He yelped as Geralt fucked up into him again, but took the chance to reach for his cock and strip it with alacrity while Geralt was suitably distracted.

“Ah ah,” Eskel chided him, and caught at his hands, kissing one before bringing them to his own hips. “You can manage a little longer. I want a turn once Geralt’s done with you.”

With a scowl which by even the most charitable of estimates was remarkably unthreatening, Jaskier hauled Eskel closer, growled something filthy under his breath, and promptly swallowed Eskel’s cock to the hilt, eyes still furious.

“Little shit,” Eskel swore, and locked his knees defiantly.

Jaskier could feel Geralt breathing hard against his neck, clearly watching the show. Lips already sloppy with spit and precome, he let the mess dribble down his chin as he moaned around Eskel’s length, desperation at not being allowed to come lending him an edge.

He tensed, too, tightening his arse around Geralt’s cock, knowing his witcher’s newfound appreciation for having Jaskier trembling on the edge would have him close. Geralt rolled his hips into the new angle, digging his fingers into Jaskier’s hips for a final few thrusts, and came with his teeth buried in Jaskier’s neck.

They paused there for a long moment, Jaskier rejoicing in the feel of Geralt pulsing hotly inside him, clenching weakly to draw it out as long as possible, mouth still working at Eskel.

Once the aftershocks had finished rippling through Geralt’s body, he tipped Jaskier gently onto the bed, waiting for him to settle comfortably before pulling out of him with a dribble of oil and come.

Strong hands nudged at his thighs, and Jaskier obediently spread his legs further.

There was a moment of silence interspersed with argumentative hissing and what sounded like a palm smacked against skin, and then the mattress dipped as weight settled between his legs.

Eskel, exasperated and amused, appeared in his peripheral vision just as hands spread Jaskier’s arse wide and a familiar tongue slipped into his entrance. He sobbed, hands fisting in the sheets, as Geralt slurped and licked and nibbled at him, spit and come and oil smearing everywhere, the familiar strong grip stopping him from doing any more than twitching against the sheets.

“Please,” Jaskier found himself saying, between half voiced curses, “Please, please, oh fuck! Please-”

Settled against the headboard, Eskel slumped a little to bring his cock close enough to Jaskier’s mouth, and the bard eagerly sucked it down, grateful to have something to focus on that wasn’t the maddening, too-much not-enough pleasure of Geralt eating him out.

When Geralt finally pulled away, Jaskier hauled himself onto all fours just long enough to kiss Eskel deeply before throwing himself towards Geralt, shoving his arse in the air and snarling, “Fuck me!”

Half laughing and half groaning, Eskel lined up and sank deep into Jaskier in a single roll of his hips. “Still so tight, little bard, you feel so fucking good-”

After a moment Geralt slumped beside them and Jaskier groaned happily into his mouth in a sloppy kiss, jolting with Eskel’s movements.

Eventually Eskel’s hips too began to stutter and he paused, forehead pressed between Jaskier’s shoulder blades where the harness criss-crossed, still somehow in place despite all the manhandling.

“Roll over,” he rasped. “Want to see you come.”

Limbs trembling, Jaskier managed somehow to fall onto his back, letting his legs fall open, waving a laconic hand to suggest that Eskel get on with whatever he was planning, Jaskier had not an ounce of energy left in him to participate.

Eskel slid home with a filthy squelch, then hooked Jaskier’s legs over his shoulders. Leaning forward, Jaskier’s body bent almost in half, he rutted into the bard with perfect precision, drawing out sobs and whimpers as Jaskier fumbled at the sheets, at Eskel’s broad shoulders, at Geralt’s hands, desperately trying to cling on to something.

“Can I -” Jaskier gasped, “Can I come, please, fuck-” His gaze flickered pleadingly over to Geralt.

“I think he’s been very patient,” Geralt said with a lazy smile, fisting his cock leisurely where it had somehow risen to hardness again.

Eskel ran his hands through Jaskier’s hair, stroking the sweat stroked strands back from his forehead. “You have been patient, little bard. So very good for us.” Hips rutted forward again and stopped, buried deep inside Jaskier as he whined in protest.

He lifted one hand from Jaskier’s hair, bringing it to where their bodies joined. “You’ve taken us so well. Can you take... just a little more?”

A broad finger traced Jaskier’s rim, the sensitive flesh quivering beneath the touch.

Greedy, Jaskier had always known he was greedy, desirous of everything the world offered, grasping for it with both hands, and in this he was no different.

At the eager response Eskel pressed in, stretching him further, rubbing Jaskier’s abused prostate between finger and the flat of his palm, a fat drop of precome pearling on the end of the bard’s cock where it was suspended above his belly.

A second finger proved more difficult, Jaskier’s arse clenching tight around the additional intrusion, but with two fingers giving him a better grip it was easier for Eskel to resume a slow, steady roll of his hips, the unrelenting pressure sending Jaskier’s eyes rolling.

“So close,” he sobbed, “So close, please, fuck please, Eskel, Geralt, touch me, please, Geralt!”

The white haired witcher lifted a hand, and as Eskel fucked into Jaskier’s body he gave Jaskier’s cock the lightest of strokes. With a final agonised wail the orgasm hit him, spilling in endless waves over his own belly and chest as Eskel snarled and followed him down, burning heat reaching deep inside as the world dappled around the edges.

Limp, slumping back on the bed with legs akimbo, Eskel was a heavy weight on Jaskier’s slimmer body, but Jaskier wrapped his arms around the huge shoulders, breaths stuttering against the witcher’s neck as he attempted to hide tears.

“Jask?” Geralt’s voice was concerned, and a gentle hand brushed hair back from his face to make eye contact.

“‘m okay,” he whispered, voice rough with tears and moaning and deepthroating. “Just - a lot. Two witchers. Fuck.”

Concern melted into softness, and Geralt pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Jaskier was asleep before Eskel’s cock had softened and slid from him.

*-*-*-*-*

When he woke, pleasantly achy and unpleasantly sticky, it was beneath a blanket of witchers, Geralt’s head on his breast, hair mussed, legs tangled with Eskel’s.

They stirred as one as he yawned, and their twin gazes peering up at him reminded him so clearly of seeing them lap honey from his cock that he had to laugh, though his belly ached at the movement.

“Gods I’m tired.”

“This is why we were going to wait until evening,” Geralt grumbled into his skin. “You’ll want food now, then you’ll be up for hours.”

Jaskier hummed something uncomplimentary, but didn’t disagree.

Eskel perked up at the sound of food. “Did we finish off the honey?”

“Ew, I’m not eating that after you went sticking your fingers in it and smearing it everywhere. If you want it you can lick it off me, but I’m not touching that jar.” A shame, but honestly, witchers could be so uncouth.

With visible reluctance, Geralt pushed himself up. “Hush, bard. There’s another jar.”

That was another idea entirely, and Jaskier managed to stir himself enough to sit up. “Gods, we’ve ruined the bed. You’ve ruined _me_ , you beasts. Ugh.”

“Hmm. You wash, I’ll find you something to go with it.”

“Can’t wash. I’m not getting up at least until tomorrow.”

Mid way through pulling on his breeches, Geralt sighed, and Jaskier rolled over determinedly. A minute later, the witcher returned, shoving Eskel off Jaskier’s legs and sliding his arms under the bard’s sticky, sweat and spunk-covered body. “Come on, bard.”

Squirming, Jaskier tried futilely to escape. “Don’t you dare drop me in there, you - you beast!”

“You used that one already,” Geralt told him, then lowered him into the bath as Jaskier squirmed like a cat to escape the water. As soon as the bard’s foot hit the water-

“Oh!” It was warm, deliciously so, the perfect temperature to soothe his muscles without being overwhelming on a summer night, and he settled against the side of the tub with a happy sigh. “I love you.”

Geralt snorted, pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and escaped out the door without even bothering to put a shirt on. Jaskier had no small amount of sympathy for whichever poor innkeep or cook would have to contend with a discussion about food while trying not to stare too obviously at the most perfect chest on the continent.

By the time Geralt returned with a quite frankly enormous plate of bread, figs and cheese scattered around the edges, Jaskier had all but melted into the tub. The delicate lingerie, which would undoubtedly need an extremely talented washerwoman to have any chance at removing the stains, had been abandoned in a small damp heap.

Attention caught by the smell of food, Eskel finally stirred from where Geralt had unceremoniously dumped him, but Geralt pointed his dagger at him threateningly. “You don’t get any of this until you’ve at least washed your hands.”

“As if you’ve not put worse in your mouth,” Eskel grumbled, staggering upright to dunk his hands in the tub and add another blast of Igni as Jaskier wiggled his toes.

“And put something on,” the bard added, covering his eyes as though his delicate sensibilities were offended at Eskel’s nakedness. Eskel leered at him, scratching his balls without a care, but lumbered off to dig through the pile of discarded clothing.

Perched on the side of the tub, plate balanced on his crossed leg, Geralt caught Jaskier's attention. “Here.”

Fresh bread, or fresh enough, drenched in honey, with goats cheese and a thin slice of fig. Just enough of a morsel to fit neatly into Jaskier’s mouth, nibbled from Geralt’s fingers.

Geralt’s face, stoic as it normally was, went a little pink at the obvious sound of pleasure, and he sliced more figs, licking the juice from his fingers.

Finally dressed in, or at least in shorts, Eskel loomed over Geralt’s shoulder, hand reaching for the cheese, but was slapped away. “Wait your turn,” Geralt informed him, feeding Jaskier another bite.

Jaskier waved a hand, slow and lazy. “I don’t mind sharing.” He took a breath and sank beneath the water, scrubbing at face and hair before surfacing, just in time for Eskel to offer a tidbit.

“Oh. Well, then.” He took that with the same care as the previous offerings, with the slightest hint of teeth.

“I’m keeping him,” Eskel declared, sucking honey from his finger, his eyes fixed on Jaskier.

Geralt growled and snapped his teeth. “He’s _mine_ , brother.”

Sighing, Jaskier slumped against the side of the tub, politely finishing his mouthful before speaking. “Surely today proves, if anything, that there’s enough bard to go around? At least occasionally, because if we did this too often my poor human body would be in pieces.”

He caught Geralt’s hand where it wielded the dagger as skillfully with the cheese and fruit as it did when doing unspeakable things to monsters, and kissed the knuckles, the witcher looking mollified.

“I am, as always, yours. But sometimes...” Jaskier ran a finger through honey unspooled on the plate and offered it up to Geralt’s mouth, ignoring the exhausted ache in his arm. “Sometimes, variety can be sweeter.”

Something in Geralt’s gaze shifted, gone sharp and predatory.

"Besides, didn't Vesemir ever tell you to share?" Jaskier asked innocently.

There was a collective wince. "Jaskier?"

"Yes, dearest Eskel?"

"If you ever mention Vesemir near where we were, are, or might be fucking - there will be consequences."

Laughing delightedly Jaskier pinched a piece of cheese from the plate, then licked his fingers clean. "Very well, very well. Out of curiosity, what might those consequences be?"

"Twice as much foreplay, next time, before we touch your cock," Eskel informed him.

"Twice as much begging," Geralt growled.

Jaskier thought for a long moment. "That seems fair. Now, should I mention him - should I mention _Vesemir_ more than once, would that be three times more, or four? One should always be aware of these things, you see, before entering into any sort of agreement-"

Floundering away from two murderous looking witchers, it was hardly the work of a moment for them to grab him, lift his squirming, soaking body from the bath as he squealed, and dump him unceremoniously on the bed.

"Ah, now, my dear witchers, surely you wouldn't harm an innocent bard, who only wanted to make sure Vesemir was - being res - being respecte- ah!"

They would surely be charged extra for the shrieking, but that ship had probably long since sailed.


End file.
